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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512155">Week 3: Grey/Complexity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramioneLDWS/pseuds/DramioneLDWS'>DramioneLDWS</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:33:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,444</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512155</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramioneLDWS/pseuds/DramioneLDWS</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is an individual drabble written by a single participant.</p><p><b>IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT</b>: Due to the potential for heavy themes/triggering content, please pay attention to every individual drabble's trigger warnings. If you feel uncomfortable reading an entry, please notify an admin. If you are not comfortable notifying an admin, you are not obligated to read triggering content.</p><p>Please mind the tags/triggers at the top of each entry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Last Drabble Writer Standing - Round 3: Rare Pairs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Lot Like Hope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: A Lot Like Hope<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight">ravenslight</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Percy is an enigma, all sharp angles and jutting elbows at odds with his immaculately-kept appearance. His pressed wardrobe works to keep everything organised within neat lines.</p><p>She knows better.</p><p>“Pansy.” He dips his head, low light flickering over his features.</p><p>“Weasley.”</p><p>His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, the only tangible manifestation of interior chaos. Beneath his oxford, his sternocleidomastoid jumps. He can hide it from everyone else, but not her; he’s fraying at the edges, unraveling under her observation.</p><p>Her cigarette butt glows between them, an interplay of black and white casting his hooded gaze deeper. </p><p>“Thank you for coming.” Each of Percy’s movements are measured, like he’s desperately clinging to control. The volatility of it rests just beneath his skin.</p><p>She exhales an amorphous cloud of smoke, watching it blend into the greyscale, as she bites back her response: she’d always come for him. He knows it as well as he knows his name.</p><p>“You’ve been avoiding me,” he adds, indulging in a long sip of his wine. “I’d like to know why.” When he returns the glass to its place, a single bead of wine runs down the curve of the goblet, charting a course over the stem and angled foot, until it reaches the pristine tablecloth. </p><p>It spreads out like a bead of dark blood, an irrevocable marker of his discontent. </p><p>He’s not a stupid man; he knows there’s more at stake here than either of them have any business discussing candidly, but his gaze roves over her body, caressing her exposed décolletage with familiarity she’d like reflected with the soft curve of his hands.</p><p>Self-preservation stays her tongue for no other reason than that she is loath to admit her fear.</p><p>Yearning is not an emotion either of them are supposed to feel, carefully eliminated by a Ministry that feared the rise of something like Voldemort again.</p><p>Desire is dangerous, but she feels its burn in his consideration. </p><p>They reach for each other at the same time.</p><p>It’s a fleeting moment, really, an incidental brush of one another’s flesh that could easily be written off as platonic, accidental even, but it’s enough.</p><p>
  <i>Colour.</i>
</p><p>Blooming, beautiful colour peels back waves of monochromatic grey in concentric circles from their fingertips, and she can’t stifle her gasp.</p><p>His hair is just as red as she remembers it, and a watery chuckle escapes her because <i>of course</i> his tie is a sensible dove grey. It comes back to her in dizzying speed, and she has to grip the edge of the table from the shock of it.</p><p>Here, in some gods-forsaken restaurant in London, the truth is written in the miniscule gap between Percy’s lips.</p><p>“Gods, you are even more lovely in colour,” he whispers, awe and reverence in his tone, and she knows she’ll never let this go again.</p><p>The Ministry will fight it, but when his fingers tangle with hers securely, her fear dissipates.</p><p>For Pansy, a world without grey feels a lot like hope.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Anything but Dull</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Anything but Dull<br/>Rating: M<br/>Word Count: 498<br/>Warnings: None<br/>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell/pseuds/RoseHarperMaxwell">RoseHarperMaxwell</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>"Do you have colors picked out yet?" Ginny asked. "Nothing that clashes with red, obviously."</p><p>Pansy hadn't thought about it, but she knew without hesitation. "Grey."</p><p>"Grey? It's so dull," said Hermione.</p>
<hr/><p>Grey is...</p><p> </p><p>The creamy, silver-tipped roses Percy brought her on their first date. "I know they're a bit unusual. I assume you've had enough of pansies to last a lifetime."</p><p> </p><p>The thunderous shade of sky as they were caught in a downpour the same night. Percy unfastened his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders without a second thought.</p><p> </p><p>The granite headstone marking Fred's grave, where she rested her hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently as he knelt. The time he'd lost went unspoken; they both had regrets from that time in their lives.</p><p> </p><p>The kitten, a small ball of wispy fluff. A gift from Percy, named Earl Grey for the way he carried himself like feline royalty.</p><p> </p><p>The sweater in soft slate. Knitted by someone far warmer than her own mother, passed to her from under the tree by Potter himself. It was the moment she knew his family, blood and chosen, accepted her.</p><p> </p><p>The pewter suit, bespoke and expertly fitted, that he wore to Draco and Hermione's wedding.</p><p>"What's the matter?" he asked, looking down and brushing away imaginary lint.</p><p>"You. Looking like"—she gestured in his direction—"that. It's your fault we're going to be late."</p><p>She dragged him into the bedroom, holding his gaze as she slipped each button.</p><p> </p><p>The paint they chose for the walls, amusingly named Subtle Touch. Bored and distracted by the play of muscle under his shirt, she smudged paint across the bridge of his nose.</p><p>"Pansy," he said. "I can see you're looking for attention."</p><p>"Fuck subtle," she said, dropping her paintbrush. "You know I like a firm touch."</p><p> </p><p>The platinum ring he slipped onto her finger.</p><p>"I'm glad you said yes," he said against her lips. "I have a list of reasons why you should, in case I needed to convince you."</p><p>Her laughter caught in her throat as she climbed into his lap. "You made a list? Of reasons I should say yes to you?"</p><p>"You know how I feel about lists." He tightened his grip on her waist. "Do you want to see it?"</p><p>"Of course I want to see it. Show me the logic."</p><p>Somewhere between <em>Neither of us want children, and I'll shut both of our mothers down immediately</em> and <em>We can be silent together without ever feeling lonely,</em> Pansy's heart started beating faster.</p><p>Something giddy bubbled up inside her at <em>Your personality is my favorite. I happen to favor a bit of acerbity.</em></p><p>By the time she passed <em>I like having secrets only the two of us know</em> and reached <em>We're very sexually compatible,</em> she let the parchment flutter to the floor.</p><p>"I might need a compatibility demonstration," she said. "Just to be sure."</p>
<hr/><p>"Grey is anything but dull." Pansy looked around the table. "Who's the bride here, anyway? Humor me."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Lot Like Hope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Every Shade<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatSoMalfoy/pseuds/WhatSoMalfoy">WhatSoMalfoy</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Percy Weasley had always considered things in life to be right or wrong, good or bad, black— or white. There was no in-between, there were no shades, there was no grey. Things simply were, or they weren’t. In the past, he'd mistaken black for white, and he’d stood on the side of wrong. He was prideful, and it had cost him dearly, but in the end, he landed with the good and stood tall with his family, which— if you believed his mother, was all that mattered. </p><p>In Pansy Parkinson, Percy had found the exception to his rule. Everything about her was grey. From her stormy eyes to her sparkling silver slip dress— from her loyalties to her morals. Pansy Parkinson was every shade of grey there was, and Percy wanted to possess them all. </p><p>He watched her from across the room; dripping with confidence and allure. Of all the places he’d ever expected to see her again, his little sister’s wedding was not one of them— yet, there she stood, swathed in the attentions of many and perfectly at ease pretending he didn’t exist. Her glossy black hair <i>barely</i> tickled her shoulder blades in the same way that her dress <i>barely</i> reached her knees. Her stilettos could have been the blade they were named for. Every step she took led her away from him and that— <i>that</i> was a knife to the heart. A small snake made entirely of silver coiled itself around her upper arm, and Percy could swear that it locked eyes with him, that it beckoned to him, that it <i>bewitched</i> him to follow her when she excused herself from the party. </p><p>Pansy was waiting for him just outside the marquee, only a wall of canvas to separate them from the other guests. The silver snake tasted the air appreciatively as he drew near and the smoke from her cigarette weaved through the night’s sky like a serpent on the wind. Its lazy tendrils swirled around him, bringing him closer to her until he could smell the perfume on her neck. She dropped the cigarette to the dirt and used the toe of her shoe to grind out the flame. Percy ignored the itch to vanish it away. </p><p>“Aren’t you going to say hello, Percy?” She asked, releasing the last of the smoke from her lungs.</p><p>Percy tried to keep his hands from her, but the grey called to him, begging to be acknowledged. Percy gripped her hips and pulled her toward him, closing the gap. Pansy snaked her hands into his hair and pulled him down to meet her in a ferocious kiss. Biting his lower lip and drawing blood, Pansy broke away and stepped back.</p><p>“I dislike waking up alone, Percy,” she warned, “don’t do it again.” </p><p>“I thought it was just a one-time thing?” He said, swiping at his lip.</p><p>With a smirk, Pansy rejoined the party.</p><p>Percy coveted the grey, and in the end, he’d drown in all of her shades.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Falsely Accused</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Falsely Accused<br/>Rating: G<br/>Word Count:491<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_stone/pseuds/persephone_stone">persephone_stone</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <strong>The Daily Prophet</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>2/10/09</p>
</div>Stormclouds filled the London sky this morning, but the gloomy weather couldn’t dampen a palpable sense of scandal-ridden curiosity that swirled through the air, courtesy of the start of the highest-profile case the Wizengamot has heard in years.<p>I am referring, of course, to the case of Contessa Pansy Rovina, née Parkinson, who stands accused of the murder of her late husband: Marco, Conte di Sardinia. The fashionable widow appeared in court today in a demure black dress of wool crepe, her face obscured behind a sheer veil.</p><p>Defending the Contessa is barrister Percy Weasley, widely believed to be the most brilliant—and most expensive—mind in British wizarding law. He’s made quite the name for himself since the war, and in a surprise twist to those of us who knew him when he was Head Boy at Hogwarts (this reporter included), Weasley has become rather...well…<em>fit.</em></p><p>In today’s opening arguments, Weasley passionately defended the Contessa’s innocence. You could hear a pin drop at the end of his remarks, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that the defendant’s eyes were glued to Weasley the entire time he spoke, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with some unnamed emotion. </p><p>In her only planned statement to the court, the Contessa simply said: “I did not kill my husband. I have been framed.”</p><p>At first glance, the case seems to be rather complex, lacking clear black and white answers. I will be present in the courtroom for the duration of the trial, and will of course continue to report all the facts to you, dear reader.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <strong>The Daily Prophet</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>2/14/09</p>
</div>One would think that Mr. Weasley’s jokester brother had released one of his Wildfire Whiz-Bangs inside the courtroom today, given the explosive nature of the hearing.<p>Weasley brought out the fireworks when he called the late Conte’s nephew (and current Conte di Sardinia) Alfredo Rovina to the stand. He proceeded to question him <em>most</em> aggressively on all manner of topics, including his eye-popping gambling debt, which he’d have been hard-pressed to pay off unless he inherited his uncle’s title and fortune. </p><p>Weasley went on to ask if Alfredo knew that one could make a potent form of cyanide (a poison which, according to the Italian ministry’s autopsy report, was found in abundance in the late Conte’s system) by grinding up the pits of cherries (a fruit which, according to anyone with eyes, grows in abundance in the Rovina estate’s orchards).</p><p>Only the most eagle-eyed reporter could have seen Weasley tip a vial of what could only be Veritaserum into Alfredo’s cup of tea before his testimony began, and so would of course be shocked when the cunning current Conte confessed to the contemptible crime.</p><p>Lucky for you, dear reader, I am no ordinary reporter.</p><p>And if such an eagle-eyed reporter saw the Contessa and her barrister tenderly embracing after she was cleared of all charges, well…</p><p>She would say good for them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Gandalf the Grey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Gandalf the Grey<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 480<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridogmom/pseuds/Tridogmom">Tridogmom</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Who is this Dumbledore looking motherfucker?” Pansy asked and Percy rolled his eyes.</p><p>Why Ginny had decided to bring her friend to their monthly family film night was beyond him. Not that he hated the Slytherin, far from it. He was mad for her. But the chit talked non-stop whilst they watched; asking questions about everything she didn't understand.</p><p>“That’s Gandalf the Grey," Percy spat. "If you would stop talking instead of watching, you would know that."</p><p>“Well, he looks like Dumbledore. Why is he even in this? He’s not as good looking as Legolas.” </p><p>"It's a story!” He jumped up, needing to walk whilst arguing his case. “The quality of someone's looks has nothing to do with how important their part is."</p><p>She stood quickly, getting in his face. "Yes, it does!" </p><p>He vaguely registered his siblings' eyes moving from the television to the disagreement he and Pansy were having. Ginny even at the audacity to eat popcorn. </p><p>"Gandalf is a powerful wizard who, if you paid attention would know, is a pivotal member of the story. He not only–"</p><p>"If you say so," Pansy cut him off. "He's not hot, he doesn't have arrows, and he says stupid shite. Sounds like Dumbledore to me. Now Legolas..."</p><p>Percy tuned out of her <i>why sexy men are better</i> rant. He didn't know if he wanted to hex her mouth shut or snog her senseless. </p><p>His mum, Ginny, and sisters-in-law were always watching romantic comedies where mid-fight, the man would throw the woman against the wall, kiss her to get her to stop talking, then after a round of sex, everything was fine and they lived happily ever after. Clearly, women were simple creatures that just wanted a man to dominate them. </p><p>“... and, let’s not forget about Aragorn,” Pansy continued. “When you look at how–”</p><p>Her words were cut off as he shoved her into the sitting room wall. As soon as she opened her mouth to protest, he pressed his lips against hers as he roughly pinned her in place with his hips. The room around them went silent, but he didn’t care if his siblings were watching. He was finally kissing the woman of his dreams. The films had it right, a little dominance and the woman was putty in his hands. </p><p>Pansy pushed him away, and he gave her a smirk, guessing she was ready to go to his bedroom. Suddenly, bright lights blossomed behind his eyes as she punched him square in the jaw. </p><p>“What in the fuck is wrong with you?” she spat at him. “You don’t just kiss people without their permission. Wanker.”</p><p>As his siblings roared with laughter, congratulating her for standing up for herself, he hung his head and walked into the kitchen to get ice for his jaw. </p><p>Maybe women were more complex than the films made them out to be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Improvidence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Improvidence<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger">granger_danger</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At exactly 9:00 am, Percy Weasley finds himself gliding towards Grosse Pointe in a chauffeured Parkmobile Falcon, his workday upended before it can begin. He adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses and rereads:</p><p>
  <em><strong>Skeeter’s Scandalous Society Scribbles</strong><br/>
June 16th, 1936<br/>
<strong>LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS… PLEASE!</strong><br/>
A gaggle of glamour girls gone wrong—glibly self-styled as “Lilith’s Spawn”—caused a stir at Eloise Midgeon’s debut when they unleashed several dozen garter snakes during the father-daughter dance. Miss Pansy Parkinson (sole heiress to renowned magnate Peregrine Parkinson’s automobile dynasty) and her pals have previously disrupted this season with mineral oil-spiked punch and unseemly stunts involving stockings. These menace minxes must be taken into hand before they wreak further havoc—perhaps in Newport, where the Parkinsons summer.</em>
</p><p>The stifling gray city rolls past, ripe with storm. Percy sighs, glowering down at the scrawled note:</p><p>
  <em>WEASLEY—<br/>
BRING HER TO HEEL POST-HASTE. WILL WITHHOLD HER TRUST OTHERWISE. UNTIL BACK AT BRYN MAWR, WRANGLING BRAT YOUR FULL-TIME JOB.<br/>
—PP</em>
</p><p>Parkinson Motors now operates with military precision, 212% more efficient and 387% more lucrative than when Percy first took his position, and no good deed goes unpunished. The reformation of lapsed debutantes lands outside “other duties as delegated,” but refusing would be tantamount to resigning.</p><p>Percy sweats into his suit and makes a note to request a salary increase. When Stan deposits him at Parkmont, he removes his hat and rings the bell.</p>
<hr/><p>Percy never leaves work early; the Falcon coasts away from Parkmont at 3:47 pm, nonetheless. Lake St. Clair’s slate surface is jagged beneath a pensive sky.</p><p>At his side, a folder. The summer’s social calendar. One first-class rail ticket to Newport. A bonus check impressive enough to belie the need for a raise.</p><p>Christ.</p><p>She’d kept him waiting all day, perspiring in the Solarium.</p><p>Percy closes his eyes. Seeing only bobbed black finger waves and dark, insolent eyes, he opens them again.</p><p>He casts his sweat-damp jacket off, something he’s never done outside his home. He yanks his tie free, recalling her impertinent fingers mussing the knot. Testing him.</p><p>He still smells orchids, and her perfume. Impossible. Expensive.</p><p>Percy, who doesn’t smoke, begs a cigarette off Stan and lights it, fingers shaking.</p><p>The decorative bow at the front of her dress, perhaps <em>intentionally</em> askew.</p><p>“Re-tie it,” he’d said.</p><p>“Yes, sir,” she’d said, all impudence.</p><p>But she’d <em>done</em> it, looking daggers at him, deliberately tying it poorly.</p><p>“Do I have to show you?” he’d said darkly, his vigilance slipping even before he’d pulled loose the silk ties and worked them, slowly, meticulously, into a low bow trailing over her small, perfect breasts.</p><p>He blows smoke out through the open window and counts the seconds between lightning and thunder.</p><p>The sky opens, finally. Percy turns his face towards the pouring rain like a child. Lets his glasses smear. Lets his pomade melt. Lets his cigarette fizzle.</p><p>Lets the pristine leather interior be ruined, and fuck Peregrine Parkinson.</p><p>Even when he is soaked through, he does not close the window.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Monotony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Monotony<br/>Rating: G<br/>Word Count: 498<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupniffler/pseuds/teacupniffler">TeacupNiffler</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everything in the Ministry was grey.</p><p>Grey owls. Grey walls. Grey banners hanging from grey ceilings and grey-robed workers, their eyes dull with the hazy grey fog that Percy knew too well.</p><p>It was drab, lifeless and despondent in a way his younger self could have never predicted with all the enthusiasm and grandeur of a foolish boy.</p><p>Now he saw it for what it was. </p><p>The Ministry was drowning him in grey.</p><p>Every day, every moment seemed to be tinted with a lifeless pallor.</p><p>Except her.</p><p>She was every colour, bursting out into the space in violent accents.</p><p>Red lips. Blue eyes. Pink cheeks. Purple robes.</p><p>Even her language was colourful as she gripped the reception wizard by the limp, grey necktie.</p><p>“You’ll tell me where the fuck it is. Now!”</p><p>Percy could feel his barely functioning heart begin to pound in his chest. Life seemed to seep back into his pores, the monotone of his life electrified by her unexpected presence.</p><p>“I can help you.” He knew he would do anything to remain in her presence, even showing her through the towering rows of grey filing cabinets.</p><p>“You’re a Weasley.”</p><p>No doubt she wondered why he was down there, in the bowels of the Ministry’s filing department unlike his brothers, the war heroes who wore their history with pride.</p><p>“Yes.” Percy could feel the colour draining from him again as he remembered his own history. His failures, his foolish faith, the brother he had lost, his fault.</p><p>“Lead the way then, Weasley.” She dropped her grip on the receptionist, who fell back and resumed his work with a drone-like deftness.</p><p>Deep into the filing department Percy led her, her bright bloom of colour forbidden and exhilarating in the dark grey room. He shouldn’t have taken her there; the violation would have already been written up and sent to his superior.</p><p>He could be fired. He found he didn’t care.</p><p>They found it carefully slotted in the back of the cabinet, in the thin folder labelled Parkinson, P. The single piece of paper with black ink signed at the bottom made Percy’s eyes widen as he passed it slowly to Pansy.</p><p>“This is what you came for?”</p><p>Pansy nodded, “I needed to see it for myself.”</p><p>She ran her finger over the ink signature as she didn’t quite believe it was real. Percy knew he shouldn’t have asked but he would, just to keep her there a moment longer.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>He didn’t expect her laughter, the noise rippling through the stagnant air around them.</p><p>“Why did my father disown me?” She smiled; wide red lips parted unexpectedly. “Because I wouldn’t marry who he wished.”</p><p>“What will you do now?”</p><p>Pansy handed the paper back to him.</p><p>“I’ll be free.”</p><p>She strode through the room confidently until she stopped in the doorway. Percy could see his boss yelling, but Pansy ignored him as she turned back and smiled at Percy.</p><p>“Wouldn't you like to be free too, Weasley?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. My Favorite Assassin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: My Favorite Assassin<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlocYrrehc/pseuds/AlocYrrehc">AlocYrrehc</a></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>The party was dull; all society functions were. Without the social lubrication a few glasses of champagne provided Pansy was ready to murder everyone here, instead of just her intended target.</p><p>She caught sight of Finch Dickcissel (whose parents deserved a spot on Pansy’s hit list for bestowing their progeny such an idiotic name) leaving the party, a witch who was decidedly <em> not </em> his wife tagging along.</p><p>“<em> Exemplum patronum </em> , <em> homenum evanesum</em>.” Fully disillusioned, Pansy admired the patronus she’d summoned. To the casual observer, it was her double in every way, its usual ethereal shimmer hidden by the charmed silver dress she wore. So long as no one tried to engage in conversation beyond the usual niceties, any partygoer could have a full, if boring, conversation with the patronus, giving Pansy a much-needed alibi.</p><p>She shadowed Finch to a bedroom and stood, ear to the door, for her least favorite part of the job: waiting. Voyeurism had never done it for Pansy, so she half listened from the hallway. As her target neared completion, six Specialist Spells Command Aurors swept into the hallway, wands ready, trailed by Percy Weasley, head of Ministry Intelligence Section 5.</p><p>Pansy heard a pop, felt a stream of liquid trickling down her legs, and doubled over as a contraction swept across her uterus so aggressively, she lost control of her disillusionment charm.</p><p>Weasley moved first, hitting Pansy square on the shoulder with a <em>petrificus totalus</em>. She fell to the ground, her emergency evacuation portkey mercifully falling into her hand, pulling her to safety.</p>
<hr/><p>“Perseus Ignatius Weasley, you had better have a good reason for jinxing your wife while she was on assignment or so help me, I will end you and raise this child on my own! It will look like an accident. PERCY!”</p><p>He apparated behind her, throwing up a <em> protego </em> as his incredibly angry, immensely pregnant wife turned on him.</p><p>“I was working, Percy!” She sent a stinging jinx at him.</p><p>“I know, but –”</p><p>“You said you were okay with me taking this assignment!” Jelly-legs jinx.</p><p>“I am, sweetums –”</p><p>“Why didn’t you <em> tell me </em> the ministry was taking him out today?” Bat-bogey hex.</p><p>“My patronus couldn’t find you through your protective charms–”</p><p>“So you <em> jinxed </em> me? You ruined my favorite dress! It’s charmed to always make me look a size 2, no matter how massive I get! It was one of a kind.” bemoaned Pansy before she collapsed, spent. Percy dropped his protective spell, rushing to her side.</p><p>“Pansy, I’m sorry. I had to make it believable. <em> Petrificus totalus </em>is safe for the baby. I levitated the portkey into your hand to bring you home. It would certainly complicate things at work if I were seen going easy on MI5’s most wanted assassin, hmm?”</p><p>Pansy pouted, then acquiesced. “I suppose. But <em> don’t </em> get in my way again. You owe me a new dress.”</p><p>Percy kissed his wife. “Yes, dear. Now, let’s get to the hospital and meet our baby, shall we?”</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Ode to the Colour Grey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Ode to the Colour Grey<br/>Rating: G<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramioneDreaming/pseuds/DramioneDreaming">DramioneDreaming</a></p>
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    <p>“No.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“I said no. No, I will not custom tailor you yet another set of sensible grey work robes Percy Sydney Weasley.”</p><p>“My middle name is not Sydney.”</p><p>“I don’t care” Pansy sniffed, turning on one narrow heel and closing the shop door in Percy’s shocked face.</p><p>Percy knocked politely on the door to Parkinson’s boutique. He was somewhat accustomed to her abrasive attitude after patronising her Diagon Alley boutique for the past 3 years and had learnt early on that silent persistence was the best stance.</p><p>After pointedly ignoring the stoic man on her doorstep for several minutes, Pansy relented with a click of her tongue and a flick of her wand.</p><p>The door swung open and Percy entered without a hint of annoyance or satisfaction, his consistently unruffled demeanour possibly more irritating to the melodramatic brunette than his insistence on wearing only grey.</p><p>“I require a new set of dress robes, and perhaps one or two new work appropriate sets. Grey. I believe you have my measurements from my last visit, but I would appreciate your assistance in selecting something that would suit.”</p><p>“Oh, you thought I was joking about the grey thing. I’m really not.” Parkinson deadpanned.</p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“You do not have it. It has pained me every time you have left my shop with a bag full of dull grey fabric and I really don’t think I can bring myself to do it again. It’s boring as all hell and in all honesty, it's not even a good colour on you.”</p><p>“I was under the impression that grey looks good on everyone. It is universally appropriate, inoffensive…”</p><p>“Smart and business like whilst also unassuming, yes yes Weasley I have heard your little ode to the colour grey several times now.” Pansy rolled her eyes and folded her arms over her chest.</p><p>Percy quirked one ginger brow in what was likely the biggest outward display of emotion Pansy had yet seen the man display.</p><p>“Navy.”</p><p>“Navy?”</p><p>“Yes, Weasley. Navy.”</p><p>“You realise, I presume, that I could let you select me navy robes and simply alter the colour once I leave.”</p><p>“But you won’t.” Pansy pointed one long, manicured finger in his direction.</p><p>“And why is that?”</p><p>“Because once I have you in a perfectly tailored set of this season’s robes in a flattering navy, you will see that it is the colour that you were made to wear. Grey washes out your pale skin, whereas blues will create a striking contrast with your beautiful red hair and draw attention to those gorgeous blue eyes that you insist on hiding behind outdated horn-rimmed frames.”</p><p>“You think that my eyes are gorgeous?”</p><p>“Yes, Weasley. Do keep up. Now let's get you fitted, and we can talk about where you are going to take me on our first date,” Pansy brushed her fingertips over Percy’s awful grey robes as she walked to the fitting room, motioning for him to follow. “I enjoy French fine dining.”</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Played</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Played<br/>Rating: G<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331">Misdemeanor1331</a></p>
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    <p>
  
</p><p>Percy’s four o’clock stands just outside his office door. She’s a slight woman made taller by shiny, three-inch heels. She wears a fitted black skirt and a white blouse that threatens to pop a button if she breathes too deeply. He considers himself a professional—a man not so easily undone by the sudden appearance of a pretty face—but hers leaves him dumbstruck. </p><p>Silence stretches. Her dark brow arches toward her blunt-cut fringe, triggering a sense memory: a young girl with an upturned nose and a Slytherin robe who’d given him cheek when he’d given her detention. </p><p><i>Pansy</i>. As a child, nothing like the flower that shares her name. As a woman, a force who should clearly not be underestimated. </p><p>Percy pops to his feet. “It’s lovely to see you again.” She takes his hand, the lie earning him a tight smile. “What can I do for you?” </p><p>“I’ve recently inventoried my family’s vault and identified several items that may be of interest to your museum. But before I agree to an exhibition, I want to ensure that your collection is appropriately secured.”  </p><p>It’s a strange request. Most donors accept the museum’s security protocols without question. And the Ashmolean’s <i>Arcanos</i> collection hasn’t been robbed in five centuries, further proof of the program’s robustness. </p><p>But Director Ainsley has made his expectations clear. The collection is in dire need of donors, requiring new acquisitions to reignite its flagging attendance. Percy’s role as curator is to secure these new acquisitions by any means necessary. </p><p>Even if it means agreeing to borderline unreasonable terms. </p><p>He hides his discomfort behind an agreeable smile and an open gesture. “My pleasure. This way, please.” </p><p>They walk to the main gallery, and Percy outlines the museum’s complex web of anti-Muggle, anti-intrusion, and anti-theft wards. He explains the triple-locked windows, the threshold alarms, the magical dampeners, and the bespoke sticking charms. Pansy nods and probes for detail, wanting the specifics.</p><p>On their way back to his office, she stops at a small glass case. It contains a silver ring, its band hammered smooth and etched with delicate Brythonic characters. In its center sits a large moonstone: grey, uncut, and pulsing with power. </p><p>“The Ring of Dispel,” he explains. “Gifted to Sir Lancelot by the Lake of the Lake. It’s able to break any enchantment.” </p><p>“I know,” she says. “My family is descended from Nimuë.”</p><p>Percy blinks his surprise. “I had no idea.”</p><p>“We thought it was lost.” Pansy smiles at the ring, then up at him. Her dark eyes shine. “I suppose it’s not.” </p><p>A shiver crawls down Percy’s spine; he ignores it. Premonition is not a talent the Weasleys possess. His sudden dread signifies nothing more than surprise at the coincidental connection. </p><p>The tour ends, Pansy leaves, and, though nothing is signed, Percy feels both optimistic and a touch smitten. </p><p>It isn’t until the following morning, when he arrives to find the museum’s wards disabled and the moonstone ring missing, that Percy realizes just how thoroughly he’d been played.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Priorities</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Priorities<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/anne_ammons/pseuds/anne_ammons">anne_ammons</a></p>
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    <p>Percy Weasley was a busy man. He might not yet be an important man, but he was well on his way. Already, he had a condo in Manhattan and a demanding job to pay for said condo. He didn’t have time for frivolities like dating. But then, everyone had an itch that needed to be scratched from time to time. He stared at his phone for a moment before opening the app. </p><p>No strings attached. That was what he wanted; a chance to unwind for a night, find someone with which to satisfy his carnal urges, and still leave early enough to meet his trainer the following morning.</p><p>He idly scrolled through the profiles, waiting for someone to catch his eye. One could tell a lot by what someone included in their profile, what they were looking for out of life, if they had goals and plans. </p><p>Of course, photos didn’t tell the whole story, but then again, he knew that he himself had used a filter to reduce the number of freckles that showed and to tone down his flaming red hair. Red-headed men were 16% less likely to attract interest, so in his profile pic, he was decidedly more of a strawberry blond.</p><p>The color of his hair didn’t matter much when the lights were low, anyway.</p><p>As if on cue, the phone rang, interrupting his perusal of a promising profile.</p><p><i>Molly Weasley</i>. He must have conjured his mother through his disdain for the family traits.</p><p>He hit the Dismiss button instantly. All she’d want to know was when he was coming to visit and why he couldn’t seem to settle down like his brothers. It was the same thing every time. The fact was, Percy was nothing like his brothers, which was why he had left home at the earliest possible opportunity and hadn’t looked back, except for the occasional obligatory visits for weddings and Christmas. </p><p>He scrolled a bit longer before landing on a profile that piqued his interest. Her picture was, for lack of a better term, cute. Not that she was juvenile, but she had a tiny upturned nose and sported a shiny, black bob and bright red lips that would look spectacular wrapped around his cock.</p><p>He turned to her profile. </p><p>Pansy. </p><p>What an unfortunate name. He wasn’t desperate enough for someone vacuous. He needed some conversation during the encounter to really get what he wanted. Still, those perfectly pouty lips called to him.</p><p>Last meal: Dim Sum at Nom Wah<br/>
Last book I read: Reminiscences of a Stock Operator<br/>
Where I’m headed next: Maldives - maybe you’ll come with?</p><p>He instantly sat up. Oh, there was depth here that he could work with. He didn’t hesitate to tap the blue star. He wasn’t interested in wasting time. So much in life was complicated, but this didn’t need to be. He hoped she felt the same. When the screen showed they’d matched, he decided to swing for the fence.</p><p>
  <i>Hey there. Netflix and chill?</i>
</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Roots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Roots<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 498<br/>Warnings: No Archive Warnings, Implied past self-harm</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kifiyathewriter/pseuds/kifiyathewriter">kifiyathewriter</a></p>
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    <p>Percy sat staring at a snag in the carpet of the waiting area of a muggle therapist. The subtle imperfection of the grey woven thread held his attention longer than was required, but he couldn’t help being transfixed. Though, it wasn’t long before his attention was directed elsewhere when the creaking sound of a door being opened assaulted his mind.</p><p>He’d waited ages for this other person to walk through the small hallway leading into the room. In the interim, Percy felt his long-forgotten heart stutter to life. The organ banged and clattered around the cavity of his chest in a way he couldn’t help but liken to how his father’s muggle car struggled to start after periods of disuse. A cold sweat slid along the expanse of his spine, and Percy wondered how this unknown person had awakened something within him. He’d been in such a state since Fred’s death; the guilt of his mistakes eating away at his sanity, while his inability to control his own mental spiral left him to free fall. It was George, of all people, who’d dragged him here. George who’d lost so much. Percy had been unable to deny his request. Suffice to say, he was startled when Pansy Parkinson walked into the room.</p>
<hr/><p>Pansy knew she was an absolute wreck; she’d recognized that fact long before her friends did, and when she could no longer reconcile with what her life had become, she’d left the Wizarding World, seeking refuge among muggles.</p><p>That didn’t equate to being healed. No, Pansy had tread the long and winding road littered with the ruins of every truth she’d once known. She’d fought tooth and nail to keep herself together, but the scars that littered her hands and arms outwardly reflected her inner turmoil. When she’d reached the frayed end of the rope she’d long held, Pansy turned to therapy, and in doing so, reconnected with Percy Weasley.</p><p>Surprisingly, he didn’t revile her for her past; rather, he’d seen her mistitched seams and recognized something of himself that aligned with her own jagged edges. He’d helped her, stone by stone, to rebuild the bridge she’d haphazardly destroyed, back to their world. In return, she’d helped him to realize how blessed he was to have the boundless love and support of his family.</p><p>The transition had been...awkward. Pansy, used to being alone, struggled with allowing so many people into her life, afraid she’d become attached, but Molly had been a fierce defender of both their relationship and Pansy, herself. The two women connected through baking, and when Pansy attempted to hide her scars, Moly simply grabbed her hand, looked her in the eyes and told her how grateful she was that Percy’d found such a lovely person to call home.</p>
<hr/><p>Their daughter was born on a brisk winter morning. Pansy initially refused, but Percy was insistent that she have a name with roots, something to hold her steady. So they’d decided on Daisy, for new beginnings.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Sea of Ambiguity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Sea of Ambiguity<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitlincheri28/pseuds/Caitlincheri28">Caitlincheri28</a></p>
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    <p>Pansy felt completely out of place as her gaze swept across The Great Hall. </p><p>She stood to the side, off in the shadows — a small attempt at self preservation. </p><p>It had been one year since The Battle of Hogwarts, and why Pansy felt any right to be standing here amongst the survivors was anyone’s guess. </p><p>
  <i>You lost people too. You’re a survivor too.</i>
</p><p>Pansy scoffed. In a rare moment of weakness after the trials, she had allowed her walls to crack and crumble, giving Hermione Granger the perfect chance to peek through — to gaze into Pansy’s soul. Hermione had clutched her hand and reminded Pansy that <i>all of them</i> had existed in a state of terror. That every single one of them had experienced trauma. </p><p>That the world wasn’t simply black and white. </p><p>Now that she was standing amongst her former classmates however, Pansy couldn’t help but feel ashamed. If the world was indeed painted in shades of grey, then she certainly radiated nothing but dark beams of burnt charcoal. </p><p>Needing to escape the symphony of grief that crescendoed over the hall and echoed through her heart, she quietly slipped through the doors and found herself stepping onto a small balcony that overlooked the lake. A cool breeze brushed across her arms, a soft caress that brought a sense of peace. Pansy took a deep breath and tried to calm the swirling emotions that were begging to crack her feebly reconstructed walls. </p><p>“Parkinson.”</p><p>Pansy startled at the low voice that came from her left — a tall figure leaned against the railing, staring out across the lake. If the flash of red hair didn’t give away his identity, the splash of freckles sprinkled across his nose certainly did. Though she hadn’t seen him in years, she’d know Percy Weasley anywhere. </p><p>“Weasley. I am surprised to see you sulking out here.” </p><p>A laugh void of any humor escaped his lungs. “I don’t belong there.” </p><p>“Seriously, Weasley? Do you know who you’re talking to?” Pansy shook her head in disbelief. His entire family had become the heroes of this story. “You’re talking to the coward who wanted to present Harry Potter like a Christmas gift to The Dark Lord.” </p><p>“I know who you are, Pansy. I also know that you weren’t the only one thinking it.” He took a deep breath and whispered, “I actively worked against my family for years — I thought they were crazy. I thought they were <i>wrong</i>. Turns out, it was me all along.” </p><p>Suddenly, Pansy recognised herself in a man who she had been <i>so sure</i> embodied the light. She realised that every person was just trying to stay afloat in a vast grey sea of ambiguity —  trying to ride the ever rising and crashing waves of grey. </p><p>Pansy discovered she desperately needed to dive deeper into the complexities of Percy. </p><p>“Weasley?” She asked, holding out her hand. “Do you want to grab a drink?”</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Simplicity is Overrated</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Simplicity is Overrated<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumpologist/pseuds/frumpologist">Frumpologist</a></p>
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    <p>
  
</p><p>“Weasley?”</p><p>He hums more than answers. Working a case with him is tedious. They’re not even partners—or Aurors—and yet, somehow they’ve been stuck together a dozen times.</p><p>She thinks it’s penance. Apparently, she’ll always be atoning for something stupid she said when she was seventeen.</p><p>Whatever. Best to go along with it. She can’t afford another scandal.</p><p>Plus, there’s something about his stoicism that kind of turns her on.</p><p>“Weasley.”</p><p>Pansy flips her hair and crosses her legs. Pointless; he doesn’t look her way.</p><p>“What’s another word for treaty?”</p><p>His bespectacled eyes tighten at the corners at the same time the tip of his pink tongue peeks between his lips. “Agreement.”</p><p>Pansy’s eyes drop to the paper resting on her thigh. She flicks her quill back and forth and then shakes her head. “Hmm—too many letters. Pact?”</p><p>She scribbles the word and moves onto the next.</p><p>Weasley sips his tea—no cream or sugar, like a heathen. “Thought you didn’t want my help with the crosswords?”</p><p>She decides not to answer. Gives him a taste of his own potion. Instead, she watches him concentrate. It’s mesmerising.</p><p>His blunt thumbnail traces the edge of a shiny badge. He’s chewing on the corner of his lip, studying the pin as if he hasn’t looked at it every night they’ve been together. She’s not sure why; it’s actually quite horrible. Someone’s charmed it to say Bighead Boy.</p><p>He always frowns when he stares at it, which gives her feelings she doesn’t want to unpack.</p><p>“Why do you always carry that with you?”</p><p>He pretends not to hear her.</p><p>“I know you’re mad we didn’t find Dolohov today.” Still, he says nothing. Not even a glance her way. “We’ll get him tomorrow.”</p><p>Another non-committal hum.</p><p>She huffs, not even looking at the crossword puzzle for clues. “Three letters. Exasperate.”</p><p>Weasley so rarely meets her eyes, that when he does, her gut clenches. Not an unpleasant feeling. His lips pinch, and she thinks she detects a little curl at their corners.</p><p>“Vex,” he says, and pushes up from the chair, closing the distance between them.</p><p>His chin appears over her shoulder, and she ignores the cedar undertones of his cologne. He can see she’s faking the clue.</p><p>“Next?”</p><p>Pansy takes a fortifying breath. “Intricate, layered. Seven letters.”</p><p>Weasley whispers, his breath sending tingles down her spine. “Complex.”</p><p>She doesn’t bother filling in the boxes. “I don’t like complex things.”</p><p>“Such irony.” The vibration of his laugh does silly things to her. “I’ve come around to them.”</p><p>“Have you?”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>Damn that sound.</p><p>Somehow, she’s leaned into his warmth. Their lips are all but touching. “What are we doing?”</p><p>His lips twitch. “Uncomplicating things.”</p><p>A beat passes like honey through a sieve. There are shadows behind his eyes, same as the ones she sees in the mirror. Suddenly, he doesn’t seem quite so—Weasley.</p><p>The crossword is forgotten. It slips away like all her worries.</p><p>When their lips touch, she gasps. And she knows—is absolutely certain—simplicity is overrated.</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Starlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Starlight<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Msmerlin/pseuds/Msmerlin">msmerlin</a></p>
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    <p>“It’s couture.”</p><p>“It’s last season.” Pansy was many things. Opinionated, outspoken, and unapologetically herself, but unfashionable was not one of them. Wearing last season’s gown to the Ministry Gala was <i>absolutely</i> not optional, even if it was couture.</p><p>Daphne was spread across the chaise in her closet, flipping through the latest <i>Witch Weekly</i> with passive interest. “You’re impossible.”</p><p>“I’m a treasure.”</p><p>“That’s not exactly the term I’d use, but…” The saccharine voice trailed off, leaving the crisp sound of glossy pages rustling to fill the silence.</p><p>Pansy didn’t even know why she cared so much; it was just a stupid Gala. It wasn’t even like she wanted to attend. As the last member of the Parkinson family, it was her obligation. Regardless of wants, Pansy knew that if she was attending, she had to look stunning.</p><p>After all, what was the point of attending if she wasn’t best dressed?</p>
<hr/><p>“I’m sorry, did you just say muse?” Had she not gone through a decade of etiquette training, Pansy might have scoffed. She didn’t know what to expect when Percy’s assistant owled her for a meeting. She hadn’t so much as uttered a single word to the wizard in the last five years despite hovering in the same circles.</p><p>Percy Weasley, once Ministry lapdog, reformed himself into one of the most popular designers for modern Witches. Evidently alienating himself from his family and losing quite literally everything had been rather good for his talent.</p><p> “I did.” Percy set his teacup down, red fringe drifting across his forehead so it hung just above his manicured brows. “I’ve drawn several designs since Siren Opera Ball. All with you in mind.”</p><p>“<i>Oh.</i>” Pansy’s fingers flexed around the porcelain cup, painted nail tapping against the side as she tried to wrap her head around what was unfolding. She was going to tell him yes, she would be daft not to, but it was hard to believe he’d spent even an ounce of thought on her.</p><p>Sure, she was famous. But it wasn’t exactly like their history was anything but murky. He was from a beloved wizarding family, and her surname had a Dark Mark stain over it.</p><p>“You seem hesitant.” He brushed his hair back, fingers sliding across the closely shaven side of his head as he tucked the lengthy top behind his ear.</p><p>“I’m not.” Pansy brought her cup to her lips, the lukewarm tea splashing across her tongue. “It’s just… complicated.”</p><p>“It doesn’t need to be.”</p>
<hr/><p>“Ms. Parkinson! Ms. Parkinson, over here!”</p><p>Flashbulb pops surrounded her, and she was bathed in the glow, the heat practically browning her porcelain skin.</p><p>The gossamer gown draped over her beautifully, the exquisite craftsmanship noticeable even to the most untrained eye. Every stitch carefully selected, to make sure the garment was not just bespoke, but as much apart of her as her own skin.</p><p>She felt like a Goddess, swathed in the night sky. Becoming someone’s muse wasn’t without its benefits, especially when the artist was Percy Weasley.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Synergy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Synergy<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically">bionically</a></p>
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    <p>Shortly before one o’clock on the afternoon of Tuesday 27 September 1997, a heavily veiled Pansy Parkinson entered Hog’s Head Inn in Hogsmeade, glanced around only once before sitting down at a table in the dark corner.</p><p>She hadn’t expected to be the first person there, and she was twitchy with nerves. The barman, who’d resembled the late Headmaster enough to make her stare, herded his goats into an interior room without a word.</p><p>Before long, a hooded figure appeared in the doorway, scanned the room, and unerringly strode to her table. A low, masculine voice spoke: “A grubby place to meet.”</p><p>Pansy’s breath hitched. She almost botched the response: “Not as grubby as Grumble the Goat.”</p><p>The door to the bar was magically barred, the place empty of people. Even Aberforth had left them to it. </p><p>The stranger sat; Pansy slowly removed her veil. Across the table, her companion lowered his hood. She gaped at him for a full minute as she took in his appearance.</p><p>
  <i>“You?”</i>
</p><p>“Obviously,” Percy Weasley said in that clipped, tight voice that she recognised from when he was a Prefect and docked points for loitering in the hallways a bare minute past curfew.</p><p>“You <i>can’t</i> be working against…” Pansy nervously cast her eyes around. “You-Know-Who. Your <i>family’s</i> working against him, and you—”</p><p>Long before Pansy’s assignment from Headmaster Dumbledore, she’d observed the fallout of the middle Weasley brother with the rest of the family. Now she was confronted with the idea that it was all a ruse. </p><p>Or possibly a test.</p><p>The thought made Pansy’s skin crawl. She half expected the Professors Carrow to jump out from behind the dark oak bar and hex her with the Cruciatus she was now so used to seeing. Her heart was in her throat; she was on her feet in the next second. “I’m leaving. This wasn’t the plan.”</p><p>He was so fast Pansy barely saw him move. His hand, encased in a black leather glove, clamped down around her wrist. She could feel the power of his grip holding her in place. “Come off your high horse, Parkinson, and <i>listen.</i> I won’t be able to come again.”</p><p>“Oh <i>really.”</i></p><p>When he gritted his teeth together, Pansy took the opportunity to evaluate him. Older and broader than what she’d remembered from a few years past. Tired, too, from the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of strain around his lips. The stress of playing a dual role, undoubtedly. Merlin knew, she had felt enough of the same pressure herself.</p><p>The Headmaster had called her contact brave. <i>Braver than anyone knows.</i> Now she knew what he meant. If anything went wrong for her, she could claim she’d been coerced, but Weasley? He’d be executed on the spot.</p><p>Pansy inhaled deeply. “Alright. I’m listening.”</p><p>She wasn’t being silly when she noticed that a smile did wonders for him. Her speeding pulse was only because of the dangers involved here, that was all.</p><p>“The Vault of Ice is located…”</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. The Critic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: The Critic<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 490<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimifreed/pseuds/Mimifreed">Mimifreed</a></p>
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    <p>“He sent it back, Chef.”</p><p>Pansy’s arm stilled in the air, sending perfectly sauteed mirepoix raining down, spraying her wrist with hot oil. </p><p>“He <i>what</i>?” she hissed.</p><p>“Sent it back.”</p><p>Pansy took a deep breath and turned to face the expediting table, trying to ignore the twitch in her left eye as the dish glared up at her. She untied her apron and cast it aside, moving around the line to snatch up the plate.</p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>“I just want to have a little <i>chat</i> with the critic,” Pansy said, marching from the kitchen.</p><p>As she shoved through the swinging doors, her eyes scanned the dining room. He was sitting alone—red hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a leather bound journal.</p><p>Percy <i>fucking</i> Weasley.</p><p>She caught the eye of the bartender and watched as he stilled, mid shake. The patrons quieted, watching her curiously as she crossed the dining room floor. Percy barely acknowledged her when she reached the table. She slammed the plate to the white, linen covered surface and stared expectantly at him.</p><p>He adjusted his glasses and motioned to the plate, “I sent this dish back, Chef Parkinson.”</p><p>“And, I’m unsending it.”</p><p>Percy folded his hands and turned in his seat to look up at her, “Excuse me?”</p><p>“I <i>said</i>, I’m unsending it. There’s nothing wrong with this dish.”</p><p>“I don’t mean to insult you, Chef, but it was rather...simple.”</p><p>Her left eye twitched.</p><p>“I don’t mean to insult <i>you</i>, Mr Weasley,” she parroted. “But, did you even taste it?”</p><p>“Yes. It’s lacking a certain complexity I enjoy when writing a good review. I thought I would do you a favor in sending it back, instead of critiquing something so low effort.”</p><p>Pansy sucked her teeth and nodded. “Right,” she drawled. She snapped her fingers to get the attention of the passing server, “Silverware!” </p><p>She rounded his table and yanked a chair out, sitting down and thanking the server as he handed her two rolls of silverware.</p><p>“Chef Parkinson—“</p><p>Pansy interrupted him with a fork and a raised eyebrow, “Take the damn fork.”</p><p>“This is extremely unprofessional.”</p><p>Pansy glared at Percy and dug her own fork into the dish, careful to make sure the sauce was covering the duck. She watched as he copied her motion, putting his fork into his mouth.</p><p>“Do you taste that?” she asked. “Velvety mouthfeel. Bitter on the front, from tart cherries, that dissipates to sweet. Acid from the wine as it hits your throat. Duck, perfectly medium rare, accoutrements unneeded. Complex flavors are not reserved for dishes no one can pronounce, Mr Weasley. There is beauty in simplicity.”</p><p>Percy stared at her a beat before sinking his fork into the dish again and she smirked. Pansy pushed the plate closer to him and stood, straightening her gray chef’s coat.</p><p>“I’ll have your server bring you some wine—a nice Beaujolais, I think.” </p><p>“Thank you, Chef.” Percy said. </p><p>“Thank me in your review.”</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Language of Fashion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: The Language of Fashion<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 500<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyBrianne/pseuds/HollyBrianne">HollyBrianne</a></p>
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    <p>She notices his clothing first, as she does when she initially sees anyone. It’s a habit Pansy’s always had— sizing people up in order to tear them down. Now, working as a personal stylist in an upscale boutique in Diagon Alley, she does the same appraisal for loftier reasons.</p><p>Okay, she’s still mocking this man in her head. But honestly, a pair of olive-coloured corduroy slacks and an ill-fitting, mustard-coloured shirt? He’s lucky she’s willing to help him at all.</p><p>“Good afternoon,” she greets. “I’m Pansy.”</p><p>He turns and Pansy’s shocked to find that she knows him. Vaguely. She just barely remembers his face (minus the five o’clock scruff he’s sporting now) from her early days at Hogwarts.</p><p>“Percy,” he says and extends his hand. His handshake is firm.</p><p>“What brings you in? A special event?”</p><p>He nods. “I need a suit for tonight.”</p><p>“What’s the occasion?” she asks. She starts to circle him, inspecting his form. Contrary to what his current outfit would let her believe, he cuts a pleasing figure. Long, lean lines and strong angles. She can’t wait to undress him. Purely to dress him back up better, of course.</p><p>“Does it matter?”</p><p>“Yes,” she scoffs, already flipping through a rack of Muggle-style suits. “The trick to style isn’t simply the right clothes, it’s the right clothes to match the occasion. For business, your clothes should be a display of power.” She holds a sleek wool jacket against his chest. Then, because his prim and proper, fully-buttoned shirt is practically begging to be corrupted, she switches the wool jacket for one of dragon leather. “But for pleasure… well, maybe that’s a display of a different kind of power.” She winks. He blushes deliciously.</p><p>“It’s a meeting,” he says quickly.</p><p>Pansy withdraws the leather, unsure if she’s disappointed or relieved. “Go with the wool, then.”</p>
<hr/><p>“Liar." Pansy slides into the booth opposite Percy when she sees him that night at the pub. He’s startled and glances towards the loo where his date has recently disappeared.</p><p>“That wasn’t exactly a lie,” he says. “I did meet her here.”</p><p>Pansy snickers into her cocktail.</p><p>“Sorry,” he snarks back, not sounding even a bit sorry. “But fashion isn’t nearly as complex as you seem to think.”</p><p>“Sure it is. It’s a language all its own. If I were your date—” She pauses to let him imagine that, prolonging the moment by sucking the gin from her lime wedge. She swallows dramatically and is rewarded by the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing tensely. “—I would read thoughtlessness. It looks like you came straight from work. An impressively important job, granted, where you undoubtedly dominate. But then I would think, do you have any energy left to dominate me ?”</p><p>“Excuse me?” A blonde witch, Percy’s actual date, has returned from the loo. Percy chokes on his firewhisky.</p><p>“Sorry,” Pansy says, equally unconvincing, but relinquishes the seat. “Weasley, find me if you’re interested in exchanging that jacket. The dragon leather is still available.”</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. This Is How It Begins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: This Is How It Begins<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 496<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seakays/pseuds/Seakays">Seakays</a></p>
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    <p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>This is how it begins.</i>
</p><p>Sharing a table at the latest Ministry function in magical Edinburgh, they indulge in a glass or two too many of the exquisite <i>Lanson Brut</i> champagne Pansy strongly suspects Draco Malfoy procured.</p><p>The attraction is electric, and with inhibitions lowered they surrender to the heat, charred black by the chemistry.  In the misty grey of the morning after, they sip Percy’s private hangover potion, indulge in a half dozen apple crumble delicacies from The Kilted Donut, and discover they have so much in common. </p><p>Both are burdened by their assigned roles as black sheep and harbor a deep desire to be more.  More than the man who betrayed his famous family.  More than the woman who wanted Harry Potter to burn.</p><p>They fall hard and they fall fast.  Forged together by their desire to be more, they coalesce as a team.</p><p>Their wedding is held at the Burrow because Molly insists.  Everything is elegant in white lace, with accents of dove grey:  her attendant’s dress, the waistcoat of the best man, and the bridal bouquet of a dozen Early Grey roses. </p><p>Pansy would remember the grey. </p><p>
  <i>This is how it cracks.</i>
</p><p>The decay is silent in its approach, and easily ignored.  After all, they have reputations to rebuild and a world to conquer.  A quick <i>Reparo</i> and everything looks as good as new.  On the outside.</p><p>The hours are long, the travel is harsh, and the separation ever present.  They are wildly successful, and yet the love is still present.    So she thinks.</p><p>When slowly there are forgotten birthdays and missed anniversaries. </p><p>When Percy only makes his side of the bed in the morning, no matter who leaves it first.</p><p>When after a decade of marriage, he can never care to remember her favourite bottle of wine, or the name of her best customer.</p><p>When he says that <i>yes, he knew it was Valentine’s Day,</i> but still didn’t get her anything.  <i>I can transfigure something into roses if you really want.</i></p><p>When they have a rare day off together, yet the lure of Quidditch holds more appeal than sharing any time. </p><p>A thousand small cuts.</p><p>
  <i>This is how it ends.</i>
</p><p>During the final meeting, Pansy notices the grey.  The storm clouds gathered outside.  The quill the solicitor hands her to sign the dissolution decree.  The robes that Percy wears.  Her favourite.  She would like to think it all means something, but they are so far beyond that.</p><p>Ending a marriage is complex.  The friends, the family, the social fallout.  It is not just her heart that breaks, as she hurts in a completely sensory way.   She wonders if Percy will be happy now.  She wonders if she ever will be again. </p><p>Then it is over, and a decade is eradicated with a single quill stroke.</p><p>Pansy steps onto the high street in Diagon Alley. The storm clouds part, and as the grey clears, she smiles.</p><p>Because this is how it begins.</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Tip of the Iceberg</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Tip of the Iceberg<br/>Rating: G<br/>Word Count: 487<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxLouise/pseuds/LuxLouise">LuxLouise</a></p>
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    <p>She stuck out like a sore thumb. Most of the other people in the group were in normal clothes, jumpers, jeans, nothing special. But her? She was wearing designer from head to toe. Her legs were crossed at the knee, her foot was jiggling fast. The bright red of her lips contrasted stark against the grey stone walls of the muggle church basement.</p><p>He couldn’t help the way his eyes continued to dart across the loose circle they were all seated in. She didn’t seem to be paying attention to anyone else, examining her nails, staring up at the ceiling, doing anything really but listening.</p><p>Percy couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her. She was younger than him of course but he had heard of her, remembered her from the final battle, but he couldn’t really remember seeing her around anywhere. Seeing her or really anyone from the magical world in a muggle setting was always jarring.</p><p>He had kept his head down after the blood war ended. He did his due diligence and helped rebuild their world but hadn’t gone back to the Ministry instead he had became a partner at Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, helping pull George back from the edge. Percy was startled from his thoughts when the click-clack of high heels drew his eyes up. She had never spoken at a meeting. He sat up a little straighter, his eyes locked on her face. </p><p>“Hi, I’m Pansy and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for two hundred and forty-forty days.” She took a breath before continuing. </p><p>“I never really thought I would speak at one of these meetings or even come to one really. I didn’t think I had a problem, everyone that I grew up around, everyone that went through...what I went through, the way we were raised, you don’t come out of that without some sort of substance abuse problem. I just...never really thought it was a problem until suddenly I was blacking out every day, I was ruining birthday parties, I was passing out in places that I wouldn’t be caught dead in sober. I’m proud of myself but fuck if I don’t miss the feeling of absolutely nothing.”</p><p>His mouth went dry listening to her, her voice was raw and full of sadness that he knew well. She sat back down, her eyes cast down to her knees.</p><p>When the meeting ended and everyone started to leave, Percy lingered. Pansy usually was the first one out the door but today she was standing at the back of the room, stirring sugar in a cup.</p><p>“I didn’t think you would ever share your story, Parkinson.” Not the best opening line.</p><p>She snorted. “That wasn’t my story Weasley. That was the tip of the iceberg or whatever the Muggles say. I could speak at everyone of these stupid meetings and still not say everything I need to say.”</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Warp and Weft</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Title: Warp and Weft<br/>Rating: T<br/>Word Count: 498<br/>Warnings: N/A</p><p>AUTHOR: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyMurphy/pseuds/ScullyMurphy">ScullyMurphy</a></p>
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    <p>
  
</p><p>He came in on a Wednesday after lunch.</p><p>She was just finishing hers; a limp half-sandwich and a lukewarm tea, hastily consumed after two hours with a vexing client. Anyone who said women’s fashion was exacting had never worked men’s. </p><p>Pansy swore softly when the bell rang, but jumped up and smoothed the fine, dove-grey wool of her dress. She was nothing if not professional. One had to be when one’s name was on the shingle. </p><p>“Welcome to Park Suiting. May I help...” Her words trailed off as she took him in: the height and elegant build, the three-button brown tweed, <i>beautifully</i> cut. She longed to brush her hand over the line of the shoulder. </p><p>Of course she knew who he was—she remembered him vaguely from school. And his resemblance to the rest of his family was unmistakable, although the dark red hair was closely cropped and the brilliant blue eyes muted behind black-framed glasses.</p><p>He paused just inside the doorway, frank gaze skimming over her in a way that made Pansy want to check her lipstick, smooth her hair. </p><p>Heat flared, intense and unexpected. </p><p>He blinked to the side. “This is a gentlemens’ tailoring establishment?” </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“And you are?”</p><p>“The tailor.” </p><p>“You’re also—”</p><p>“Pansy Parkinson. And you’re Percy Weasley. How do you do?”</p><p>“Yes.” His eyes hadn’t moved from her and Pansy hoped the heat wasn’t <i>showing</i>.</p><p>“May I help you?” She couldn’t prevent the lift of her chin and didn’t miss the slight parting of his lips. </p><p>He wanted a suit, of course. Slate or possibly charcoal. Single-breasted. Waistcoat. He’d seen Draco in the halls of the Ministry and stopped him, asked where his windowpane centre-vent had come from. </p><p>Pansy unrolled bolts of wool, trying to ignore his clean fragrance as he leaned in, his long-fingered hands as they swept over the fabric.</p><p>He had a keen, decisive eye and in no time at all, she was calling out measurements to a quill as she ran the tape down his arms and around his waist, her movements deft, but her pulse wild. </p><p>When she got to the inseam, he cleared his throat. </p><p>“Why men’s clothing?” </p><p>She paused, looked up from where she was kneeling at his feet. “I suppose I prefer a…complexity of construction.”</p><p>He swallowed. “Fascinating.”</p><p>“Mmm,” she agreed as she stood. “Next week for a first fitting?” </p><p>“Excellent.” His eyes roved her face briefly before he turned and went out the door.</p>
<hr/><p>He went in Wednesday after lunch.</p><p>She was eating a jam bun, a fact she tried to conceal as the shop bell tinkled. </p><p>The cut of her dress was still beautiful, the sweep of her black hair against her cheek still deeply pleasing. </p><p>Her dark red pout was marred, though. By a single smudge of what looked to be raspberry jam. </p><p>The urge to lick it off her mouth was overwhelming, but Percy was nothing if not patient. </p><p>“Ready to be fit?” Her smoky, yet clipped tones still powerfully arousing. </p><p>“I am.”</p>
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